


house of cards.

by planethotdog



Category: Insatiable (TV 2018)
Genre: Bob 'Best Boyfriend' Barnard, Bob 'Drama Queen' Armstrong, Comfort/Angst, Divorce, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Coralee, Fluff, Gap Filler, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Living Together, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s1e10 'Banana Heart Banana', bob armstrong has/had an eating disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-06-30 12:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15752040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planethotdog/pseuds/planethotdog
Summary: "he'sboningbob barnard."





	1. laid bare.

It felt like the world was crashing down around him. In a way, it was.

Partygoers shuffled past him, hurriedly swarming out of the awkward, palpable tension in the air and rushing towards the open front door.

Bob always thought Barnard's door was far too large, too ostentatious – easily adding it to the long list of things Bob 'Braggart' Barnard owned that just screamed _overcompensation_. But now it seemed the entrance wasn't quite big enough. The frame was full of roasters (and one particularly despised roastee) packed in between the white trim, shoulder-to-shoulder. They were trying to escape, and Bob didn't blame them. He wanted to escape, too, after the horrific event he’d just been subjected to.

In the house, groaning with pain, unable to accommodate the crowd, Bob found kinship.

He, too, felt stretched far too thin; his own support beams and hinges cracked and creaking under nearly unbearable pressure. His woodwork had scratches and dents, the flawless outside finish chipping away to reveal the plainness and rot underneath. Previously, he had been sturdy, quick on his feet, and as level-headed as a pageant-coach-slash-lawyer could possibly be, but now, all he was reduced to was weakness, stuck in between a door jamb and a hard place.

His hands had long since gone numb, with the only sensation being teardrops slipping from his cheeks, over and down to lightly trace his fingers. Every intake of breath racked his lungs like a cough, and every sigh was shaky on its trembling bough of air. The quick, irregular drumming of his heart inside his chest was the only sound in his ears, loud and insistent. He wished it would all stop.

Bob was lying on the couch, head sagged heavily on top of the armrest and legs folded up beside him. He was wrinkling his suit, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

His life had crumbled into incredibly unfixable dust right in front of his eyes only minutes ago. The worst part was he didn’t see any plausible way he could fix it. Truthfully, he felt like curling up into a ball and dying, right there on Barnard's couch. Or, hiding inside a deep, dark hole, where nobody could ever find him again.

Either worked, but death was preferable. One thing was for sure: the world would be better off without him.

Actually, scratch that. Two things were for sure. The world would be better off without him _and_ none of this would've happened had it not been for Patty Bladell. If she hadn't have punched the homeless guy and if her mom hadn't have turned to Bob for pro-bono representation and if Patty hadn't have called him that night and if Patty hadn't have said she wanted to do pageants and if Bob hadn’t have taken her call and if he would've just _pulled the trigger_ –

He wouldn't be in this situation. He wouldn’t have lost Coralee twice. He wouldn’t have found this other side of himself that desired more. He wouldn't have been outed – not only as a repeat-offender adulterer, but as a bisexual man – in front of at least half of the town (and more importantly, his wife and son). He wouldn't be having a breakdown on his lover's couch, crying, panicking, and losing his mind over how astonishingly _fucked_ his life was right now.

To say the least.

"Bob?" The familiar voice of Hot Bob came whispering down to Other Bob's ears, but it felt far away and fuzzy. He could feel weight shifting on the sofa next to him, but it still didn't register. His mind had been cast so far out from his body, nothing felt real. He was drowning in his emotions, only forcing himself to break through the water to gasp for air just before he was about to suffocate.

It wasn't until Bob felt the touch of a cautious hand on his shoulder that he looked up, almost jumping. Barnard's eyes, filled completely with concern, concentrated on Bob's own. Almost as if he was looking past the layers of clothes Bob had on, past his bones and muscles, past his panic and feelings – right to his soul. Almost as if he was imploring him to tell his boyfriend all about it, as if he wasn’t there and didn’t already know.

Bob had managed to stall the tears until Barnard came over. Now, his lip quivered with the threat of more waterworks. He couldn’t stop himself, not when he was being looked at like that.

"Hey, hey...it's okay," Barnard insisted, hushed. Immediately, that soft touch evolved into a fully enveloped embrace: Bob's arms around him, his lips resting against the crown of his head, his palm rubbing his shoulder in comforting circles. Without looking, Bob knew he was staining that crisp, white shirt Barnard was wearing with his tears.

Bob had never felt more small and pathetic.

"No! It is not okay," he wriggled out of Barnard's grasp, exasperated and choked up, but determined, nonetheless, "Nothing's okay. Everything has gone to complete _shit_ and it is all my fault."

Barnard only took brief offense to Bob's rejection to his offered comfort, discernible merely as a flash of hurt across his features. But as Bob's rant continued, that sting faded into an echo of understanding. “Bob–”

His voice was soaked in love, compassion – pity. It made Bob sick to his stomach.

"I broke Coralee's heart – again. I hurt Brick – again. I tore my family apart – _again_. My reputation’s been ruined – again. I lost everything, all over again!" Bob sank further into the couch, if that were at all possible, with his elbows resting on top of his knees. His hands scrubbed over his face, fingers digging into his eyes to wipe away tears, trying to stop their incessant leaking. He surely already looked like a disaster; he didn't need even more crying to make it worse. Especially with the last birthday attendees finally slipping out of the house, shutting the door timidly behind them. Nobody needed to see him like this.

But his efforts were futile, for as soon as he thought the floodgates had closed to allow him back his composure, they burst open and he started sobbing all over again.

Bob felt that hand on his back once more, even more tentative than before. This time, he allowed it to stay there. Barnard's voice was quiet, but firm, "It is not your fault, darlin'."

His first instinct, first guttural reaction, was to blame Patty. She had been the one to profess their affair to the whole, crowded house. But he knows the affair never would have started had it not been for his own base desire. He had been selfish, and now he was atoning for his sins.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, words soft, "Yes it is."

Maybe Coralee was right. Maybe he was pathological.

“Bob, you can’t blame yourself. If Patty hadn’t done that–”

“But it _is_ my fault. I came back to kiss you.” His voice started elevated, but quickly lowered to a tearful whisper. “I _keep_ coming back. I keep kissing you.”

There was a pause, swelling with a tension that hadn't been there before, with Other Bob absorbed in his feelings and Hot Bob hanging on his boyfriend's every breath. Neither of them dared to move for a moment.

“And I know that I am to blame because... I love it,” Bob continued, finally casting a glance over to Barnard. His heart was heavy – heavy with sorrow, with anger, with emotions he didn't have names for – but his statements were genuine. His feelings were real and he couldn't push them away anymore. He couldn’t hide under the guise of being straight and married anymore. He no longer had anything left to lose. “Because I love _you_.”

It certainly wasn't the first time those three, little words had been dropped like a nuclear bomb between the two of them. But it was the first time that they had come from Bob's lips.

Barnard was dumbstruck, his heart in his throat; the last thing he expected from Bob after being outed so painfully in public was a profession of love – for the man he'd been outed with, nonetheless. Tears sprung in his own eyes; he almost leaned forward to kiss the disheveled man – until he remembered _why_ he was disheveled in the first place.

Instead, Barnard's hand went to grasp Bob's. He squeezed and looked Bob in the eyes. “I love you, too. But you can’t blame yourself. You never had any malicious intent. You wanted to do things the right way and Patty prevented that. If anybody’s the bad guy in this situation, it’s that damn girl.”

Out of habit, Bob opened his mouth to defend Patty; he was, after all, her defense lawyer and godfather. But the mere idea of excusing her behavior put a bitter taste in his mouth, like a pill that melted on his tongue and left its godawful residue behind. There was only so much backstabbing he could take, and tonight crossed that line by miles. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with her anymore.

Instead, he fell back against the couch, with his head craned upwards and eyes squeezed shut, muttering, “What am I gonna do? My life’s over.”

Bob Barnard realized it was a mostly rhetorical question, but the sympathy in him reared. Once again, he scooted over, closer to where Bob was in existential crisis. Wrapping his arm around Bob’s slouched shoulder, he pulled him close.

“I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna sit here for a couple minutes to collect yourself.” Bob looked up at him, eyes confused, red and puffy, and Barnard leaned forward to peck his forehead. “Then, when I come to get you, you’re gonna follow me upstairs. Yeah?”

“Oh, Jesus, Bob.” Bob groaned, pushing his way out of the embrace again, hand outstretched in a dismissive gesture. “I am _so_ not in the mood–”

“No, no, come on – trust me. It ain’t what you think.”

Bob chewed his lip, briefly contemplating before relenting. “Okay, fine. But no funny business.”

“No funny business. Scout’s honor,” Barnard smiled, saluting Bob before he got off the couch and went to rummage in the kitchen.

On his own again, arms folded across his chest, Bob closed his eyes and drew in deep breaths, trying to calm himself as per requested. Maybe things were complete and utter horseshit right now, but with Barnard here, maybe things would eventually work out. Maybe it was best to focus on here and now, rather than how his life had just shattered into a million pieces and how he could possibly go about fixing it. Maybe if he just sat here and kept breathing – in and out, in and out – maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.


	2. swallow all your tears, my love.

The house was silent. With all the party attendees gone and Barnard nowhere to be found, Bob sat alone on the couch, hands clenched around a well-loved tissue in his lap. 

In accordance with the house, he remained quiet.

For the past thirty-ish minutes, Bob had been walking the thin line between suicidal and fine, between wanting his own company and not wanting to be alone with his thoughts. Regardless of what Barnard requested, the urge to go somewhere familiar to deal with his feelings was nearly overpowering. He thought about going out to his car and driving to some desolate area where no one could find him; the weight of a gun in one hand and a bagged liquor bottle in the other had quickly become an accustomed comfort. It wouldn’t take much to send him over the edge tonight. Bob felt like, this time, he could go through with it.

He could pull the trigger.

But, if he was honest, he didn’t particularly want to get into his car and drive far away. He didn’t want to stop by the same shady liquor store and buy some cheap whiskey. He didn’t want to take that gun out of his glove box and put it in his mouth.

He just wanted to go  _ home _ .

He wanted to kick off his shoes and set his keys in the designated dish as he came in through the front door. He wanted to turn off the kitchen light Coralee always forgot about. He wanted to tip-toe past Brick’s bedroom and hear the Adele softly pouring out from underneath the door. He wanted to strip himself out of this suit and slip into his silk pajamas.

He wanted to crawl into bed next to Coralee like nothing had ever happened. He wanted to wake up like it was all just a bad dream.

Bob knew it was impossible, but it didn’t keep him from wishing he had a rewind button.

If only things could be that easy.

Just as Bob was about to ponder the logistics of how he might realistically be able to turn back time, Bob ‘Beefcake’ Barnard came bounding down the stairs: smiling, shirtless, and slightly...damp.

Bob cocked his head and furrowed his eyebrows, his timbre immediately rising in distress. “Why don’t you have on a shir–?!”

“Ah, ah.” Barnard tuts, before Bob had a chance to finish his thought. Bob’s palms were quickly swept up into Barnard’s grasp, only to have his lover press a kiss to his knuckles. From his hold, Barnard looked up, softly brushing Bob’s fingers against his lips. “No questions. Come on.”

Bob was being pulled off of the couch in a heartbeat, before he even got the chance to  _ think _ about protesting. He felt a lot like dead weight as Barnard strung him along to the staircase. A slew of complaints and pessimistic remarks rested behind his teeth, but there they would stay, without voice. As per requested.

He wasn’t exactly sure what Barnard was up to, but Bob put up no fight. He didn’t think he had any fight left in him.

No questions. No complaints. No tears. He managed to oblige easily.

His body was beyond weary, heavy with an indescribable exhaustion. The crying had ceased some point after Barnard left him to his own devices, but his eyes remained red, swollen, and tired. There was a painful scratchiness in his throat; surely, it was raw and throbbing as per being so thoroughly worked over from Bob’s sobbing. He winced every time he swallowed. Bob’s sinuses were disgustingly congested, too, making his head feel twice as heavy. He kept sniffing and rubbing at his nose, turning the end of it pink with irritation.

To top it all off (as if Bob Armstrong  _ needed _ any more problems right now), he was cold. Freezing. Goosebumps prickled his skin underneath the suit jacket he still wore. Whatever Barnard had planned, Bob hoped it involved a blanket. Or cuddles. Maybe some comfort food, like chocolate (even though he didn’t particularly trust himself not to binge right now) and a good movie to cry to. Maybe  _ Crazy, Stupid, Love _ or  _ Sleepless in Seattle _ ; some cheesy rom-com to remind him that maybe love isn’t always totally punishing after all.

All while Bob fantasized like a teenage girl who’d just been broken up with, Barnard tugged them to a stop in front of the master bathroom’s shut door.

Bob’s eyes found Barnard’s in an instant, silently imploring his lover to explain.

“Look, I know today was rough for you,” Barnard began, voice firm. Releasing his grip on Bob’s hand, his palms went to grasp both his shoulders, making sure Bob was listening to him. “I know you’re wore out, and you probably just want to go to bed.”

Bob nodded reluctantly; it was true. Barnard was weirdly intuitive that way. He raised an eyebrow and lifted his palm inquisitively, gesturing vaguely to the door. “What are we standing outside the bathroom for, then?”

There was a particular twinkle in Barnard’s eyes; one Bob had only seen when his then-nemesis was about to sabotage, blackmail, or otherwise fuck him over the past few years.

Suffice to say, he was understandably wary.

But Barnard didn’t respond to Bob’s question with words. Instead, he turned the knob on the bathroom door, pushing it open as he walked through. Bob followed hesitantly behind, neck straining to see what was so important that he had to wait on the couch for thirty minutes.

He sees now that the half-hour wait was well worth it.

There were candles – everywhere. Creamy whites and blushing reds and deep magentas burned slowly, their warm beads of wax just beginning to roll down their sides. Rose petals had been scattered all over the floor, creating a trail to the bathtub, which was already full of steaming water and billowing bubbles. A bucket of ice and champagne were set neatly on top of the closed toilet seat, with two respective glasses set next to it. Two of the fluffiest towels Bob had ever seen in his life were draped comfortably over the golden rack.

Bob was dumbstruck, blindsided by the display of romance.

“How – how did you do all of this…so fast?” Bob wondered aloud, mostly to himself, as he took a slow step farther into the bathroom. 

"I’ve had all this stuff for a while. Been waiting to surprise you with it. I figured tonight was as good a night as any.” Barnard was working on stripping – taking off his socks, unbuckling his pants, setting his watch aside – as Bob stared onwards to the tub in silence.

When Barnard was down to his boxer briefs and noticed that Bob had yet to move, yet to start to undress himself, his brow wrinkled in confusion. He stepped over to where his boyfriend stood motionless, tentatively taking his hand with an inquiry ready on his tongue. But as his face hit the dim light and Barnard saw tears welling in Bob’s eyes, his question changed.

“Hey – why are you cryin’?” His voice was quiet, full of love and concern. Barnard’s palms came to lightly hold either side of Bob’s face, using his thumb to brush away the stray teardrops.

“Happy tears.” A hand of Bob’s raised to signal a dismissal, shaking his head slightly. He smiled, albeit a little sadly. “I really do love you.”

Bob Barnard didn’t think he would ever get tired of hearing that.

“I love you.” He leaned forward and pressed a slow, tender kiss to Bob’s lips. Breaking apart after a moment, Barnard patted the other’s cheek softly and grinned. “Now, come on, before the water gets cold.”

Bob watched as the last article of clothing was removed from his boyfriend’s body. When Bob ‘Butt Naked’ Barnard stepped into the tub, the water sighed as he was enveloped in its bubbles. Barnard looked at Bob with an expression of challenge, one that seemed to say: ‘What are you waiting for? Your heaven is right here.’

Maybe there wasn’t any way to turn back time, but maybe there wasn’t any need to.

Maybe his cheesy rom-com had been right in front of him all along.

That was when Bob remembered how chilled he was, and respectively, when he realized how hot that water must be.

He couldn’t get undressed fast enough. Off went the suit jacket, the tie, his shoes – everything, until he was just as naked as Barnard.

Bob was right; the water was toasty. And it felt good.

If this was his heaven, he didn’t think he would mind staying forever.

  
  
When Bob began sipping on his champagne, he realized how numbing the oncoming haze was. His feelings of panic and anger and sadness started to fade, becoming nothing more than faint buzzing at the back of his head.

He decided he liked the way that felt.

He refilled his glass.

  
  
Things felt better when he was drunk. Everything was warm and fuzzy and he was a little light-headed and unsteady on his feet, but even that was all much better than before the bath and before the champagne.

Bob has had more of the bottle than Barnard – even drunk Bob can tell that much. It’s not quite empty yet; there’s enough left to drink himself into a black oblivion, if he so desired. But Bob had the feeling Barnard wasn’t about to let that happen.

“We’ve only been in the tub for about an hour,” Barnard told him, slowly, concern creasing his forehead. Images of Magnolia flashed in his thoughts. “Maybe it was a bad idea givin’ you alcohol.”

“I’ve only had a few glasses,” Bob spouted back, matter-of-factly in only the way drunk Bob can, despite the retort being completely false. He started to reach for his champagne to take another sip when Barnard’s hand caught his wrist before it reached its destination. Barnard didn’t speak; his look said it all.

Bob had been cut off, handed a towel, and sent to sit on the closed toilet seat while the tub drained and Barnard cleaned up. With his legs crossed and one hand propping himself up, Bob watched as Barnard set to work putting out candles.

“I don’t see why you’re making me sit here and wait for you. I know where the bedroom is,” Bob pointed out, rolling his eyes.

“Because,” Barnard started, after blowing on the final candle, “You’re drunk, and I don’t want you hurtin’ yourself. You can wait right here for me, can’t ya?”

Bob pursed his lips, as if he was contemplating really staying. But he knew he wasn’t going anywhere; everything he needed was right here. “...I  _ suppose _ .”

It only took another few minutes before Barnard finished cleaning, but to Bob, it felt like an eternity. The exhaustion he felt prior to his intoxication was catching up with him. His eyes were drooping, falling shut as his head dipped – and immediately bobbed back up again when it felt like he was going to fall off of the toilet seat.

He kept staring forward, blinking slowly and trying not to almost fall asleep again, until he saw a familiar pair of muscular legs appear in front of him.

“Your legs are so...beefy,” Bob complained, brow wrinkled, words slurring.

Barnard wasn’t sure if he was supposed to take that as a compliment or not. He opted to not acknowledge it instead. His hand reached forward to grasp Bob’s, tone soft and a little tired, “Let’s go – get you to bed before you fall asleep sittin’ up.”

Bob looked up at Barnard from his position on the toilet and nodded, gripping his hand with far more force than was necessary. Standing and  _ staying _ standing was a challenge, but with the help of Barnard, it was a challenge Bob managed to conquer. They made their way to the bedroom without any accidents. Barnard even persuaded Bob into wearing a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt instead of sleeping in his wrinkled dress shirt – despite Bob’s many protests.

Now, the two of them were in bed. Barnard on the right side of the mattress, and Bob using his chest as a pillow, his arm draped lazily across Barnard’s torso.

“Bob?” Bob inquired quietly, his voice a whisper.

“Yeah?”

Bob craned upwards to look at Barnard. It was pitch black, but somewhere in his hazy mind, Bob knew he wanted to see him. “Kiss me?”

The plea in his tone was thick with something confused, something desperate, and something nervous. Almost like it was the night Bob showed up on Barnard’s doorstep, soaking wet and dressed like a priest. But Barnard obliged to Bob’s request, despite being half-asleep.

Their lips met. The kiss was slow and gentle, but Bob had ulterior motives and revealed them quickly; he wanted more. He pushed himself up from his comfortable position and found himself straddling Barnard’s stomach, cupping his face and pressing another kiss to his mouth. This time, though, both their lips parted to allow each other inside, tongues clashing. Bob was moaning, breathy and soft and needy, the noises bleeding into the embrace between kisses. His hips rolled against Barnard’s, making it clear what Bob was after.

Bob had begun to sober up – at least, just enough for the aching pain in his chest to come back.

It made sense somehow in his drunken thoughts for  _ this _ to work, for this to make the day go away. If he could do this, he could forget about Coralee and Patty and Brick and the crowded house. If he did this, he could forget about everything for just a little while longer.

So, he didn’t stop.

Barnard, however, used his palms to grip Bob’s waist in an effort to stall his movements. Bob’s drunkenness was reminding him far too much of Miss Magic Jesus. All he could think about was Magnolia, and his daughter being in rehab wasn’t exactly a turn on for him. Not to mention, Bob wasn’t able to consent like this, and Barnard didn’t want to be the one to blame the morning after. Nor did he want to be some sort of fucked up rebound.

“Mmm,” Bob whined, pitch high and mindless, breaking the entanglement to press a fit of pecks along Barnard’s neck. His voice was a hot whisper against Barnard’s jaw, “Want you.”

“Bob–” Barnard protested weakly, unable to finish his thought before Bob moved to claim his lips again.

By way of Barnard, Bob let out a breathless gasp as they were broken apart again, but that didn’t deter him from continuing to kiss any bared skin he could find. This time, though, he moved lower.

Down the expanse of Barnard’s chest, between his pecs, and towards his belly button, Bob trailed sloppy, wet kisses, speaking in between them. “Please. Let me.”

“You’re drunk.” Barnard mumbled, but damn if it didn’t feel good. Usually, Barnard had no problem turning his moral compass off to get what he wanted, but after the events that conspired today, he wasn’t too keen on pushing Bob any further than he already had been. Especially when Bob was already on the edge.

And when Bob’s lips came dangerously close to brushing past the waistband of Barnard’s briefs, Barnard placed a firm hand on Bob’s shoulder, causing him to look up.

“Bob.” Barnard said, more sternly than he intended but at that point, it might’ve been the only thing that got the objection across.

Bob sat up, a pout curving his mouth. “But why? You love sex.”

“Yes,” Barnard pulled Bob forward, easing them back into their position from earlier, “I do. But you’re intoxicated, and I’m not.”

“So?” Bob pushed, despite settling into Barnard’s embrace. Barnard’s fingers carding softly through his hair reminded him of how tired he was. His eyes were growing heavy again.

“ _ So _ y’might wake up in the morning – sober and feeling even worse than you do right now.” Barnard said, pressing a chaste peck to the top of Bob’s head. “And I wouldn’t want to make anything else about your day  _ hard _ . It’s been rough enough already.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” Bob sighed, weighty and disappointed. He pulled the covers up over his shoulders, snuggling further into the duvet.

Barnard smiled softly, sinking into the mattress in an effort to get comfortable himself. With his arms wrapped around Bob, Barnard let his eyes close.

“Night, Bobby,” Barnard murmured (despite suspecting that Bob was already passed out), before drifting off himself.

  
  
The sun was far too  _ bright _ . It peeked in through the curtains with a vengeance that made Bob throw his pillow over his head and pull it close in an effort to block out the light. His head throbbed; it felt like his heartbeat was pulsating at the front of his skull, wreaking havoc every time he tried to peel his eyes open.

He lifted the pillow tentatively to glance at the clock. The glaring green digits told him it was nearing 12:40 p.m.

Bob groaned and fell back into the mattress.

That was longest he’d slept in for in a long time. Between the late nights with Barnard and sneaking in before Coralee woke up and the Patty-crises, his sleep schedule had suffered. Majorly. It never occurred to him how deprived he’d been of rest until now.

However nice it was to finally get recharged, waking up with a hangover was not ideal. He needed to find some ibuprofen and get himself a glass of water, ASAP.

Tentatively, he lifted the pillow off of his head and slowly pried his eyes open, baring them to the blinding sunlight. He pushed himself into a sitting position, sweeping his legs over to hang off the edge of the bed. The carpet was plush enough to be inviting, but it didn’t carry quite the relief Bob needed to quell the discomfort running rampant throughout his body.

It was then, after sliding out from under the covers, that Bob realized Barnard was gone. But there was a note left on his nightstand, and, as it turns out, two burgundy capsules and a half-full glass of water.

The note read–

Bob,

Figured you’d need these.

Went out to grab some groceries. 

Will be back soon.

Love,

Bob

A small smile twists its way onto Bob’s lips. Barnard’s confession of love had been over two weeks ago, but it still felt hard to believe. With this note in his hand and its softly sincere ink, it was easy to tell that Barnard really did care about him.

He scooped up the pills and tossed them into his mouth, aiding their journey down his throat with a chaser of water.

Hopefully, that would ease his oncoming migraine before it became unbearable.

Bob’s body was fraught with pain: his head (obviously) was pounding, his eyes were burning, his shoulders tense and his nose was stuffed up and aching.

And – he was cold. Again.

The breeze on his bare legs certainly wasn’t helping.

He looked down at himself, only to find an old, worn hairband t-shirt hanging off his torso (that didn’t belong to him) and a bright pair of neon yellow boxer briefs (that  _ definitely _ didn’t belong to him).

Who was this Bob Armstrong that woke up this morning? Sleeping in until noon, hungover, and wearing – by far – the worst outfit to ever adorn his body? 

This Bob Armstrong needed a shower and a change of clothes. Immediately.

Except, as Bob came to realize after he stepped out of the steamy shower, warm and clean, he had no clothes to change into.

All of his wardrobe was still at his house.

But he supposes that it’s technically Coralee’s house now.

_ Balls _ .


End file.
